No Longer My Brother’s Replacement

Ever since I was old enough to understand the world, I knew I was only a replacement for my dead brother. The day before I started elementary school, Mom and Dad took me to buy a backpack. Mom smiled and asked, “Blue or red? Which one do you want?” I picked blue. However, the moment I said it, her smile disappeared. She grabbed my shoulders so tightly that it hurt and screamed at me, “Why didn’t you choose red? Harry would only pick red!” Dad saw her lose control and slapped me across the face. My nose started bleeding. From that day on, whenever I chose something, I only dared to pick the color my brother would have liked. During recess, I was messing around with my classmates when some clay accidentally got stuck in my hair. The teacher kindly helped me cut it off. However, when Mom came to pick me up, she completely lost it. “Henry never had a buzz cut. You’re not my son!” She shoved me off the back of her electric scooter. I cried as I chased after her, running for half an hour before finally making it home. To keep from upsetting her again, I started copying my brother in everything. It was not until after the SATs that Mom demanded I give up my future and attend the community college near our house, even though I was the top scorer.